


Getting there

by monoocularcat



Series: Full circle (all the way back to you) [1]
Category: Supernatural
Genre: Bad Parent John Winchester, Bisexual Dean Winchester, Castiel and Dean Winchester Need to Use Their Words, Castiel/Dean Winchester First Kiss, Dean Winchester Loves Castiel, Drinking, First Kiss, Flirting, Getting Together, M/M, Sam Winchester is a Good Bro
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-02
Updated: 2020-02-02
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:53:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 5,394
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22532026
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/monoocularcat/pseuds/monoocularcat
Summary: A possible Wendigo, a thousand mile drive, and an argument about the best Batman movie*. Sometimes you've gotta start a journey to find your way home.
Relationships: Castiel/Dean Winchester
Series: Full circle (all the way back to you) [1]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1629694
Comments: 19
Kudos: 149
Collections: The Destiel Fan Survey Favs Collection





	Getting there

**Author's Note:**

> An update and renaming of 'The Power of Keaton', to acknowledge that it's now just the first in a three part series. And yes, part three is the... climactic finale that so many of you (well, eight) wanted.

The small town of Sparrow Falls, out in the wilds of northern Michigan, isn’t somewhere Dean ever planned on visiting. But radio chatter has something that sounds suspiciously like a Wendigo terrorising the locals: with three dead and one guy in a coma. There’s no one closer, at least no one who’s ready to go toe-to-toe with a monster whose favourite snack is people.

It’s a thousand miles door to door - one thousand and thirty four if Sam’s Sat Nav is to be believed. They make the drive in one sitting, Sam and Dean switching out at the halfway point and Cas taking the back seat the whole way. News must move slow in that part of the world, however, as they arrive to find out the reports are several weeks out of date. The dead are cremated and the coma-guy is clinging to his head trauma to explain what he saw.  _ Must’ve been a bear,  _ he says, over and over. A mantra for a man not ready to accept the evidence of his own eyes.

They scour the woods surrounding the town in hopes of picking up a trail, but their Wendigo is now a Wendi-gone. The light starts to fail about an hour later and - as frustrating as it is - there’s nothing to be done for it. They could turn Baby around and head for home, but after fourteen straight hours, en-route burritos and Sam’s typical reaction to refried beans, they all need a bit of fresh air. So they call it: check in at the town’s only motel, order pizza, grab some beer and take some well-ventilated R&R. 

****

“I’m just saying,” Dean drawls, wafting his bottle of beer for emphasis, “that Val Kilmer was the superior Batman. He’s the superior _everything_. Just think about the films he’s been in.” He starts checking off on his fingers. “Tombstone? Sensational. Top Gun? Perfection. Batman Forever? What else could it be than the greatest Batman movie of all time.”

Sam snorts. “Oh you’re just…”

“Wrong,” Castiel says. “About Batman, anyway.”

“Ha!” Dean yelps. “What do you know about _anything_ , Cas?”

“I know a great deal about a great many things,” the angel defends.

“Yeah, but nothing _cool_ ,” replies Dean. “Nothing _worth_ knowing.”

Cas offers Dean a haughty look. “I know what you were doing that time Sam found you with the sock and the peanut---”

“Woah, woah, woah,” Interrupts Dean, sliding his beer onto the table. “Sammy does not need…”

“No, Sammy definitely does _not_...” Sam confirms.

Cas grins crookedly, hiding it quickly behind the brown glass of his own beer. He claims that drinking alcohol has little effect on him, and it’s simply a concession he makes in the name of human companionship. But - and not that Dean’s keeping tabs or anything - Cas’s smiles always seem to come a little easier after a couple of drinks. And Cas’s smiles, especially those wonky ones he gets one or two or ten bottles deep, stir something in Dean that goes beyond friendship; beyond family. Sometimes he thinks he’s stayed alive to catch those rare but precious smiles, to wonder at the deep crinkles that they bring out around Cas’s eyes. 

Not that he’s going to come out and say any of that. That’d be freaky. Much better to posture, issue a challenge. That’s familiar. That’s safe. He narrows his eyes at Cas. “Well, come on then wiseguy,” he says. “Best Batman movie. Go.”

With gravely measured movement, Cas drains his beer and sets the empty bottle down. It’s one of several dozen others crowding the table. Lifting his gaze, Cas meets and matches Dean’s stare with easy confidence. “The best Batman movie,” he says, “is Batman Returns.”

Sam’s startled snort echoes Dean own sentiment. Cas seems so self-assured, calmly convinced of his answer, and that has Dean’s interest piqued. “I’m gonna need some reasons to back that up, buddy,” he says.

Cas hums as he considers his answer. “I appreciated the psychological complexity of the characters,” he replies.

A sharp bark escapes Dean’s mouth. “Oh yeah, action movies. That’s what I watch when I want to plumb the depths of human emotion.”

“You cry _every time_ you watch Superman 2,” Sam points out.

"Shut it, Sammy," Dean responds. 'Shut it Sammy' Sam mouths back at him. 

Dean rolls his eyes. "Such a baby," he says, turning back to Cas. "You got anything more specific there? I dunno, maybe something a bit more… relatable?"

Cas’s brow folds thoughtfully. “I suppose I found it reassuring that Bruce Wayne, for all his competence in fighting crime, was woefully inept at interpersonal relationships.” 

Sam clears his throat, eyebrows lifting towards his hairline. “Actually, that _is_ pretty relatable.”

“Speak for yourself,” Dean scoffs, holding up his hands in surrender as Sam pulls his ‘bitch, please’ face. “Okay,” he concedes, turning back to Cas. “You’ve got a couple of good points. But this isn’t just about logic. It’s about Batman. _Every_ Batman is great. I want to hear what makes _Batman Returns_ the best for _you._ ”

Again their eyes meet, something which - honestly - happens a lot. This time however, Dean thinks he sees a flash of defiance in Cas’s normally stoic stare, and Dean’s heart flutters in his throat. He scootches forward in his chair, inching towards Cas. Maybe the alcohol is skewing his depth perception, because his knee glances against the outside of Cas’s thigh. Cas’s eyes flick down for just a second, looking at where their legs are touching, and then come back to settle on Dean’s face.

“You want a reason,” Cas asks, “why I would _personally_ place _Batman Returns_ as the best film in the franchise?”

“Yeah, sure,” Dean replies. His voice sounds tight and the warmth of Cas's thigh is still _there_. "Hit me."

“Alright then,” says Cas. Just for a second Dean sees tension on the angel’s face, a secret war beneath the surface. Then Cas sets his jaw and fixes Dean with a determined stare. “Batman Returns is my favourite because I am attracted to Michael Keaton.”

Sam chokes and splutters, evidently caught mid-swallow. He gulps for breath, and wipes a stray trickle of it from his chin. “Excuse me?”

Dean’s brain isn’t working, but sadly his mouth still is. “You mean attracted like, uh, you find him compelling, engaging...”. 

“No,” Cas interjects. “You asked for a personal reason. This is it. Michael Keaton as Batman is…” he trails off in search of the right word, apparently finding it a heartbeat later. “Hot.”

There’s silence, broken only when Sam offers up a quiet little ‘wow’.

Dean, for his part, would love to offer something of greater coherence to the discussion. However he’s pretty sure that whatever remains of his brain after years of getting punched in the face has just waved a little rainbow flag and fucked off to the coast. Since when did Cas start finding people; men; _Bat_ men, hot? Sure, Dean knows Cas has done the horizontal mambo. Mostly because Cas told him as much. But Dean - if and when he thinks about it - assumed it was all part of getting the full 'human experience'. More of a curiosity than an interest, as it were. But now Cas is out here calling Michael Keaton hot, _finding_ Michael Keaton hot, and Dean... has a lot to think about.

“Wow,” Sam says again, more loudly than before. “You’re both idiots.” He pauses, cracks open a fresh bottle and tips it between his lips, and adds, “Obviously The Dark Knight is the best Batman movie.”

Sam begins to lay out his argument, which seems to revolve largely around symbolism and coded lighting and some other shit that under normal circumstances Dean would call him a pretentious jerk over. But right now, he’s happy to let Sammy take the wheel. It gives him some space to process what just went down. Cas, too, appears content to sit and drink his molecules and humour Sam’s enthused monologuing. Slowly, his eyes slip closed and he slumps down a bit in his chair. He’s already pulled the knot in his tie low and his hair seems perpetually stuck up in a way that invites smoothing. He looks so… normal. Just a regular guy in a rumpled white shirt and black slacks; kinda tired, kinda drunk, and quite a few kinds of hot.

On a surface level, Dean gets that Cas’s body - remade by Chuck in the shape of Jimmy Novak - is just an extension of Cas’s true form. A ‘protrusion of intent’ from the celestial realm to the real world, Cas has called it. Whatever the hell that means. But Dean wonders, not for the first time if he’s honest, what the whole of Cas must look like. Is he really just a towering pillar of light that burns out your eyes and sanity? Or does he have a thousand eyes and six wings alight with blue flame like the texts describe? Does he… and bear with Dean here, does he have tentacles? Not that anything in the literature suggests angels have tentacles, but the Internet has also taught Dean never to exclude the possibility. 

Dean isn’t even trying to be clandestine anymore, attention turned fully on Cas. Sam is well gone, deep in his meta and past halfway through a crate of beer; not paying a blind bit of notice to where Dean’s looking. And boy, is Dean looking: as though through the intensity of his gaze alone he can see beyond Cas’s human form. He wonders, is Cas considered an attractive angel? Do angels even have measures of beauty between themselves? Do they get together, go on dates, do they… do they have angel sex? There’s so many questions, and Dean’s not sure why he’s never asked them, or - perhaps more poignantly - why he suddenly wants to ask them now. 

As though sensing the wild directions of Dean’s thoughts, Cas chooses that moment to crack his eyelids and catch Dean mid-stare. His face softens, not overly troubled by finding himself under the scrutiny. Repositioning himself upright in his chair Cas’s leg slides against Dean’s and Dean realises that, in all the time Sam’s been speaking, neither of them moved away. A lifetime hunting has made Dean hyper-aware of his environment, yet it’s so comfortable, so natural, to touch Cas that he didn’t even notice the prolonged contact. Now he has noticed, however, he has a choice: lean into it or pull away. Cas still has a measured and mildly amused half-smile aimed at him, more alert now and with a hint of his earlier challenge returning to his expression. Dean wets his lips. If he just parts his legs a little wider, presses against Cas’s thigh a little harder… that’s got to be obvious enough for the angel to take the hint, while remaining entirely excusable. He could swear he sees Cas’s breath catch in that instant, and he’s about to make his move when---

_Bang. Crash._

They both startle, and the contact is broken as they turn to see a sheepish looking Sam and a lot of skittering, empty beer bottles rolling about on the table before him. A couple have fallen off and hit the ground - the smash, Dean presumes - and broken into several large shards.

“Whoops,” Sam says. 

_Dammit, Sammy,_ Dean wants to scold, but he can’t because that would be as blatant as a big red sock on a brass doorknob. He scans his little brother’s face, Sam’s unfocused eyes and slack cheeks. He’s wasted, and Dean feels a protective surge in his chest. He sighs. “Okay, jerk. Time for bed.”

Sam pouts. “Aww, but I…”

“No buts, only bed,” Dean insists, cutting the excuses short. He pitches it in the same voice he’s used since they were little kids, back when it was his job every night to make sure Sam went to sleep on time. 

Sam nods solemnly and clambers his feet. Broken glass crunches under his boots and he glances guiltily at it, swaying slightly where he stands. Cas starts to get up, already reaching out to steady him. Sam waves him off. "Nah I'm good, I'm good," he says. He swaggers his way to the closest bed - the one Dean had already claimed but okay, whatever - and flops face first onto it. The bed is barely a double, though, and his long legs hanging more than halfway over the edge.

Dean gives Sam a few seconds to reposition himself and when that doesn’t happen he shakes his head. "Jeez," he mutters. He stands and crosses to where Sam is sprawled and begins unlacing his brother's boots. He tosses each one to the side and hefts Sam's dead-weight legs so he's actually laid _on_ the bed, rather than across it. 

Sam grunts and drags his pillow into a cuddle, burying his face in it. 

Dean pauses to stare down at his kid bro. How someone the build of a burly Sasquatch manages to still look like a little boy is beyond him. Sam wriggles, turning his head so he’s watching Dean in turn. A little smile forms on Sam’s face and… something else. Wasted or not, Sam knows Dean better than anyone. He understands Dean’s drives, his needs, and his fears. He certainly isn’t fooling Sam about where his thoughts have been tonight. And Sam nods slightly, slowly; a gesture just for the two of him. His eyes slip closed. He’s telling Dean _go for it._ Giving his permission _._

Oh, if only it was that easy. 

Dean has a… complex relationship _with_ relationships. He's had plenty of girls, sure; because he learned early on that sex is an easy way to forget yourself for a few hours. A couple of years later, a good friend helped him figure out that sex with guys is pretty easy too. Different in some ways, but not in the most important ones. Sam knows Dean’s been with dudes, because of _course_ Sam knows. Mostly because he walked in on it about a year before he left for Stamford. And of course he’d been - well - _Sam_ about it, asking if Dean wanted to talk about it. That was never gonna happen, but it would've been weirder if he hadn't offered. It was good to know, however, that Sam didn’t judge, that nothing changed between them. That’s not been everyone’s reaction, certainly not their father’s. John’s reaction didn’t stop Dean seeking out what he wanted, but it taught him to be a bit more discreet about his time with guys. Even when he caught feelings, which - let’s be honest - is a thing he does, he found it difficult to open up. Those few people he’s fallen all the way for, Lise, Lee; a couple of others along the way - they’ve all only had a piece of him. Sharing his whole self is something Dean’s never thought possible. 

And then there’s Cas. Cas, who has been at Dean’s side for at least a half-dozen separate endings of the world. His best friend, and the reason Dean’s had to strip his bed at 3am more than once. Cas, who has somehow become woven into _everything_ Dean is and has. There’s a pull he feels whenever the two of them are close, and it’s only gotten stronger with time. He’s called it friendship, brotherhood, family. And it _is_ all those things. But it’s also something else, something that he avoids putting a name to because the only word he can find is terrifying. 

His eyes lift from an already-snoring Sam to find Cas watching him. Not intently or intensely, like he must’ve felt Dean doing to him, just looking in his direction. Cas’s lips part, a question on them, but Dean raises a finger to his own lips to silence him.

He walks back over to the table and starts picking up the spilled bottles, standing them upright again.

“Sam is not as proficient at consuming alcohol as you are,” Cas observes quietly.

“He’s not had the same amount of practice I have,” Dean confirms. 

A sad expression crosses Cas’s face, and Dean stoops to pick up some of the pieces of shattered glass so he doesn’t have to look at it. He uses an empty pizza box as a receptacle, tossing the shards inside. 

A pair of black worker boots appear at his side. “Let me help,” Cas says, crouching down beside him.

“I’m good,” Dean replies automatically.

Cas huffs. “Well, you’re as stubborn as each other at least,” he says, disregarding the instruction and picking up a chunk of green glass.

“Yeah, ow!” Dean snatches back his hand as a thin shard slices open the pad of his thumb. Reflexively, Dean sucks it between his lips, the salty tang of blood hitting his tongue.

“Show me,” Cas says, holding out his hand.

Dean gives his thumb one last suck and then offers it to Cas. It’s still slick with saliva and a slow ooze of blood fanning into the lines of his skin. It’s nothing of a cut, he’s had ten times worse from chopping onions. But the shock of it has erased the alcohol from his veins, and everything suddenly feels more acute. Cas draws Dean’s hand closer and runs the tip of his index finger over the damaged flesh, the slightest trickle of grace knitting the wound together. It feels like a featherlight kiss, warm and soothing on Dean’s skin.

It only lasts a second. “Thanks,” Dean says gruffly. Several breaths later he remembers he should take his hand back and does so. He stands, his right knee cracking as he does. Cas follows. There’s a scant few inches between them, and Dean can practically feel the heat radiating from Cas’s body, an echo of his grace still thrumming in Dean’s veins.

At last it’s Cas who breaks the silence. “You must be tired too,” his eyebrows dipping into a concerned frown. 

Dean is about to disagree, to argue that he - Dean Winchester - isn’t some weak little pissbaby. Time was he could drive baby through the night, take on a nest of vamps, and drive back on a plate of pancakes and a quart of coffee. It hurts his pride to admit that’s changing, but this is _Cas,_ and Cas has a way of seeing through all Dean’s bullshit. He _is_ tired, but what Cas is really saying is that if Dean is tired, he’ll leave. And Dean doesn’t want Cas to leave. Not yet, at least.

“I’m getting there,” he concedes. “But you’re good a while yet. Stay and talk to me.”

Cas’s face brightens his lips forming one of those sock-wrinkling smiles. “Alright,” he agrees. “If you’re sure.”

“Sure,” Dean says. He hesitates. They’re still within inches of each other and it’s making his fingers itch, unsure of what to do. He settles on clapping Cas on the bicep. “C’mon, sit back down.” 

Dean takes to the same chair he had before and Cas pulls out the one next to him. He sits and tilts his head, waiting for a prompt. He’s waiting for Dean to think of something to say. Great.

“So… watching movies and rating the actors on a scale of hotness are is what you do when we’re asleep, is it?” He cringes as soon as the words are out of his mouth, but Cas answers easily.

“Sometimes,” he admits. “If nothing more pressing is at hand.”

“And Keaton,” Dean adds, because he’s so very great at digging his own grave. “Gotta say, man, wouldn’t have seen that coming.”

Cas looks almost hurt, eyes wide with puppy-dog sorrow. “Because this is a male vessel?” he asks.

Dean flusters, both at the question and the way Cas is looking at him; so honest, so open. “No, ah… I didn’t mean, uh…” 

Damn, he should be better at this. He lies to police officers, federal agents, _bank managers,_ for a _living._ He swallows hard and attempts to get his shit together. “He’s just wouldn’t be most people’s first choice,” he says.

“Oh,” Cas replies, leaning forward in his seat, “and who is?”

Cas seems genuinely curious, but there’s a hint of humour deep in the rich timbre of his voice. If he didn’t know better, Dean would swear the angel is teasing him. _Flirting_ with him, maybe. He pushes that thought aside to give his answer. “Well, I guess the popular vote would go to George Clooney,” he says.

“He was a terrible Batman,” Cas returns gravely.

“No doubt,” agrees Dean. “But the dude’s suave, distinguished, charming, rich as fuck…”

Cas has been nodding slightly along with the list, eyes fixed on Dean’s face. “So, is that the kind of man you find attractive?”

Dean’s mouth goes dry. As before, he wants to scoff, to tell Cas he doesn’t feel one way or another about how a guy looks or acts. Not in _that_ way. But he doesn’t. Cas is out here giving zero fucks about little things like gender and sexuality and, honestly, he doesn’t deserve Dean’s hang-ups colouring that beautiful world-view. Especially not when any denial would have to be a lie.

“No,” he answers. “To be honest I always found Clooney a bit clean cut and smarmy. I…” He sucks a breath. “I like a guy who can handle himself, who’s not afraid to get his hands dirty.”

Cas’s eyes flick down, to his own hands, and Dean’s breathing stutters still for a second. It’s such a perfectly Cas thing to do, to be so literal and pure. But it’s also oddly telling. More than any words or lingering looks, that gesture alone suggests to Dean that… well, that what they’re doing here isn’t just talking.

Cas’s gaze rises to meet Dean’s once more. “That’s good to know,” he says.

Dean clears his throat. “Yeah, uh, sure. I don’t usually, you know…”

“Express your own desires vocally?” Cas’s answer cuts like a blade to the heart of the matter but he offers Dean a wistful smile in compensation. “Me neither.”

Dean needs something to do. Something less dumb than what he’s thinking of doing, anyway. Desperation has him reaching for the nearest beer bottle. Annoyingly, the one he takes hold of is one of the empties. Committed to the action, however, he mimes taking a long gulp.

“Dean…”

Cas’s voice has a tremor in it, a tenseness making it sound hoarse. Dean looks down the neck of the bottle at him, his heart hammering an irregular tattoo of ‘please’, and ‘please don’t’.

“You seemed upset that I said I found Michael Keaton attractive.”

Dean passes the empty bottle between his hand then pushes it back onto the table. He licks his lips. “Not… upset,” he says quietly. “It’s like you said. I just don’t hear you say stuff like that very often.”

“I don’t have cause to say things like that very often,” Cas admits. “Certainly not before I came to Earth. Not before I met-” He stops himself. “Not before I saw humanity for how it truly beautiful it is.”

A warm flush travels up Dean’s neck to his cheeks, a tingle of pleasure prickling his skin. “So angels don’t, uh…”

Cas shakes his head. The colour mottling his face makes Dean a bit less conscious of his own embarrassment. “It’s not that we can’t,” Cas confides. “It’s just that anything too human is treated as… distasteful. Questioning. Disobedience. Sleep. Love. Sex.”

“Wow,” Dean says with a shaky laugh, trying to not think about the way Cas’s mouth formed the word ‘sex’. “No wonder most angels are uptight assholes.”

“I have come to a similar conclusion.” 

The warm, self aware chuckle Cas gives goes straight to Dean’s head; his heart and - yes - his cock. He lets his eyes roam over Cas, blatantly and obviously. The angel’s dark slacks are wrinkled, his legs spread casually apart. Cas’s white shirt is creased where it has come untucked on one side, his blue tie loose and his collar open, exposing the tan skin of his collar and throat. Dean knows Cas can return himself to a pristine state with the barest sweep of his hand, but he allows himself to picture Cas letting go, even more disheveled than now; to imagine him totally fucked. And damn if it isn’t the most dangerous thought of his whole life. 

Dean only realises he’s been sitting almost immobile for several minutes when Cas clears his throat and begins to ease to his feet. Perhaps he’s interpreting Dean’s distraction as disinterest, because his shoulders are a little more hunched than they were before, more drawn in on himself. “I really should let you get some rest,” Cas says softly.

‘No, stay’ is on Dean’s lips. But if he says it, if he lets those words out, he’ll have to follow them through. And while he’s almost certain that he and Cas are on the same page, as crazy as that sounds, it’s still too much of a risk for Dean to take alone.

“Yeah, okay,” he sighs. His eyes drag over the length of Cas’s torso as he stands, too. On a whim he reaches out and plucks at the untucked flap of Cas’s shirt, giving it a tiny tug. It shouldn’t be hard enough to move Cas, but the angel stumbles one tiny step closer in response. At last their eyes lock. Dean starts to withdraw his hand, but before he can Cas’s fingers are on his wrist, stilling the movement.

Dean takes a deep, shuddering breath, and he sees Cas’s jaw clench. Then his hand is guided back to Cas’s stomach, to the soft white cotton of Cas’s shirt. The pads of his fingers dint Cas’s clothing and he can feel the warm skin below.

Dean is transfixed, watching every nuanced tic on Cas’s face: the way his nostrils flare as though is breathing is laboured. Cas’s lips are pressed into a hard line, pink with just a hint of moisture at the crease. And his eyes, oh God his eyes. Wide and hopeful, the deep-ice blue of them making Dean shiver, even though what he’s feeling is anything but cold.

“Are we really doing this?” Dean asks, voice barely above a whisper.

Cas replies in kind. “Well, technically we’re not doing anything yet,” he says.

Yet.

Dean can feel Cas’s breathing, the thud of his heart. He can see Cas’s face, the patient humour and anticipation in his expression. Dean knows exactly what to do and how to do it and yet he’s stood there like a damn idiot, like some virgin choirboy on his first date. Thankfully, and like so many times before, Cas saves him from himself.

For one blissful moment as Cas’s lips meet his, Dean experiences a total absence of thought - no doubt, no fear, no nagging guilt. He’d liken it to finding God, if he hadn’t already done that, called the guy a douche-canoe and punched him in his smug beardy face. Then his conscious mind snaps back. Cas’s lips are soft and warm, his nose presses into the side of Dean’s cheek. And despite how much Dean has built this up in his mind, it all just feels so _right_ that he’s not freaking out about the _after_ . Cas feels, he _tastes_ , like home. Dean still has one hand bunched into Cas’s shirt, and he uses it to drag them closer. With his free hand he strokes up Cas’s jaw, fingers splaying as they get to his ear and nestling into the wisps of longer hair starting at his temples. Cas makes a pleased noise, something between a grunt and a gasp, and kisses Dean even more fiercely.

Maybe he thought Cas would be shy, or uncertain. Perhaps, in those times he allowed himself to imagine it, Dean thought he would be the one leading; guiding; teaching. What he doesn’t expect is the way Cas’s back arches, pressing their bodies urgently together. Nor is he prepared for Cas’s hands pulling at his overshirt, helping him shuck it off and toss it to the floor. Cas crowds him backwards until Dean’s ass bumps into the table. Dean leans against it, feet planted wide to brace himself and palms flat to the wood. Cas slides in between his legs and trails kisses away from Dean’s lips, across his cheek, down his jaw and over his neck. 

“Fuck,” Dean whispers hoarsely, having to convince his lungs to expel enough air to speak.

Cas pulls back. His lips are flushed and sweetly parted. The skin under his nose has the finest peppering of sweat on it and he stares at Dean like the sunrise, blinking in the brilliance.

“I’ve been thinking about that for a long time,” admits Cas.

“Thinking hard about it?” Dean asks, and he hates himself for it only as long as it takes Cas to smile slyly in response.

“Sometimes,” Cas replies. “How about you?” He emphasises the point by angling his hip against Dean’s crotch, rubbing entirely knowingly against the line of Dean’s stiff cock.

“Buddy, if you gotta ask…”

Cas’s eyebrows twitch upward. He looks damn pleased with himself, smug in the sexiest way possible. His expression sends even more of Dean’s blood surging south, snatching his breath away. He would let Cas fuck him into this table right now, give him anything; everything. And, oh god, the way Cas is staring at him; the way his chest is heaving and how hot his skin is everywhere they touch. Everywhere he is touching _Dean_. The mere thought pulls a moan from Dean’s mouth, and Cas responds with a sound like a feral growl.

It’s a third, much less sexy noise, that breaks through the haze of lust surrounding them: a resounding fart coming from the far side of the room. 

Dean drops his head to Cas’s shoulder, suddenly reminded they’re not alone. _Sammy_ . Fuck. Okay, admittedly, he and Sam have seen each other do far worse things than make out with an angel. But still. A life on the road has led to understandings, agreements. No sexual activity in the same room, same car, or anywhere their food being prime among them. Their lives are weird, but not so weird that either wants _that_ adding into the mix. 

With a groan and a damp kiss to Cas’s collar, Dean peels himself away. “Sorry,” he says.

Cas looks equally embarrassed. “No, it’s my fault. I should have chosen a better time…”

Dean chuckles lightly, rearranging himself as best he can in the confines of his jeans. “Pal, if either of us had better timing, we’d’ve been doing this ten years ago.”

Cas’s face passes through confusion and surprise before settling into a soft smile that radiates contentment. “I suppose that’s true,” he says, dipping his head.

“Damn right,” Dean confirms. He uses his forefinger and thumb to tilt Cas’s chin back up, to look into those wonderful eyes once again. “And we are picking this up when we get back to the bunker, okay?” he promises. “When there’s at least two walls and a door between us and gassy beauty.”

“Okay,” agrees Cas. 

He steps back in order to recover Dean’s overshirt from the ground and passes it back to him. Their fingers brush in the exchange and, ridiculously, it makes Dean want to sing. He’s one hundred percent sap and for once he doesn’t care. In turn, Dean tugs Cas’s jacket off the back of the chair and holds it out. “You might need to, um…”

He doesn’t mention the rather obvious line in Cas’s pants, the telltale arousal that’s making it very hard - forgive the pun - to turn Cas away.

_Separate_ _rooms from now on, Sammy,_ he swears.

Cas takes his coat and folds it over his arm, holding it in front of him. “Thank you.”

The two of them hesitate; that pull, that _bond,_ trying to bring them back together. “Wake me in time to get some those sausage patty pancakes,” Dean says at last. 

“I’ll bring you some,” promises Cas. “And Sam,” he adds with a bashful smile. He crosses to the door and, with one last lingering look, heads out into the night.

Dean watches the closed door for what feels like a good thirty seconds before collapsing back into a chair. He rubs his hands over his face, dragging in a deep breath.

“Well, fuck,” he whispers.

**Author's Note:**

> *They are all wrong. The best Batman movie is Lego Batman and no I don't take criticism.
> 
> Get me here or on [Twitter!](https://twitter.com/Opposable_t).


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